


Like No One's Watching

by Ehiel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Actor!AU, M/M, Theater!AU, Thorin's an actor, Thranduil's a dancer, ballet!au, hopeless uncle thorin, in college, leather jackets and all, per request, rebel without a cause thorin, single father thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ehiel/pseuds/Ehiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt I happened upon on tumblr that looked a little something like this:<br/>Thorinduil ballet au<br/>Thranduil is a single father/part time ballet student at an arts college and thorin is a drama student with a ‘rebel without a cause’ persona. Motorcycle and everything.</p><p>--</p><p>“Have you no sense of talent?” Thorin mocks, throwing his backpack over his shoulders and grabbing his motorcycle helmet, slamming the locker door shut with his shoulder and starting towards the exit.</p><p>“Remember which department holds the Arkenstone, Oakenshield.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from postmortem-humour on tumblr! So this is certainly dedicated to him/her c: I hope you like it love!
> 
> I've never written with Thranduil and Thorin before, this is my first go, so be gentle, but I am certainly open to criticisms and critiques! 
> 
> Also this is un-beta-d by anyone, so there'll probably be typos galore... eh, I hope you can forgive my run-on sentences and gibberish and enjoy the fic! Let me know what you think and if there's any desire to see more, I kind of need vast amounts of motivation to finish things, ehehe ^///^ Anyways... have at it! c:

Thranduil Oropherion is never late. Never. Not once in the two years he's attended this college has Thranduil Oropherion ever been late.

 

That is, until this morning, when the usually oh so graceful classical dance major stumbles into English twenty minutes late. And sure, this really wouldn't be so infuriating to Thorin Oakensheild if it hadn't been that just last week he himself had come stumbling into class just as late... and been sent away for his tardiness. Yet, when Thranduil Oropherion does it, the teacher doesn't say a word as the tall, stalky sort of man makes his way to an empty seat and sinks into it. Nor does the teacher say a word when Thranduil's head lolls back and his eyes roll shut and he sleeps through the vast majority of the lecture.

 

What a prick.

 

\--

 

"What a prick!" Thranduil rolls his eyes at Galion's angry opinion. When he started having one of those, Thranduil had no idea. "I've no doubt it's an act of those insolent _children_ over in the theatre department!" His outcry is the first of many from the small troupe of ballet students that have gathered for their evening practice. Or... would have gathered, rather, had they not entered to find the entire floor of their studio dripping in oil, and all the mirrors covered in Expo marker insults. Thranduil sighs, tired and enraged (though his exterior would never betray it), listening to the bickering and bitching from his friends.

 

"Enough!" It only takes one word from the dance troupe’s captain to shut the entire bunch up and have them all standing at attention. The man’s anger and unrest is hidden in a mask of icy indifference as he turns towards them all. “Do not let their childish schemes upset you, it was an act of petulance, do not return it with one.” He says, but the look he gives Galion clearly reads that revenge will be had… eventually. Galion watches the captain carefully. Usually, even for all his composure, a hint of adamancy can be seen in Thranduil’s steel gray eyes after events like these (to those trained enough to see it), however, all Galion sees is… exhaustion. It troubles him, because one of the awe-inspiring things about their captain is that he never seems tired. Always so full of life, and vigor, which is not the case this day. “For the mean time,” He continues, turning back towards the mirrors, eyes absently tracing the chicken scrawl insults. “Return home. Tonight we will not dance, for safety.” There’s a chorus of ‘Yes sir’s and ‘Sweet’ that greet him in response as the team scampers from the doorway they’d all been occupying and towards the locker rooms to gather their things and hopefully cast a few snide comments at any drama majors they might catch in their paths. Galion, however, lingers, looking over the team’s Captain with careful eyes. Thranduil senses his presence and feels him stare hot on the back of his head.

 

That, and he can see him in the mirror.

 

“Is there something you need, Galion, or do I have something stuck to the back of my skull, that you stare at it so?” He says in that droll, uninterested way of his.

 

“No, of course not.” Galion says quickly, looking down at his feet, before taking a breath and looking up again, mustering all his courage to try and speak conversationally. “Yes, actually. Are you alright, Captain? You look—“

 

“I am fine.” Thranduil says, his shoulders tensing just slightly. The blonde hadn’t intended to have so much of a snap behind his words, but none the less it was present as he spoke them. Galion’s back straightens up on the captain’s tone alone. “I am… tired. I am going to… see if I can’t clean this up a bit before I go.”

 

“But—“ The man starts, taking a hesitant step towards Thranduil. The man is worn down and today, Galion might even venture to say he looks… aged. And anyone in his state should not be staying alone to clean up a mess of this velocity. Thranduil should be returning home, to his bed and his pillow and his-

 

“Go on, Galion.” Thranduil says a bit testily and he says no more, nodding and turning on a heel, knowing full well by now that when Thranduil’s mind is made up there is no one in the world who could change it. However, against his better judgement, he turns back after a moment.

 

“Would you like me to pick up—“ He starts, and the taller dancer before him must have anticipated the question to answer it so quickly.

 

“Yes, that would be appreciated.” Thranduil supplies and Galion turns for a final time, knowing mincing any other words will only elicit trouble, exiting the room. Thranduil sighs heavily when he is finally alone, letting his shoulders slump and his eyes roll in a way completely unbecoming of the prestigious dance company’s promising captain.

 

“Pricks…” He grumbles.

 

\--

 

In the long run, Thranduil was quite glad they’d caught the mess when they did. Had the oil been dry, who knew how much damage could have been done to their floors, how many weeks they would have been out as the wood was repaneled, and though Thranduil would not describe himself as a particularly sentimental person, how many memories would be uprooted and tossed out with those boards. Luckily, however, with the mess so fresh, all Thranduil had to do (besides gritting his teeth through the disgusting feeling of fresh oil on bare toes) was coat the floor in baking soda from the maintenance closet, and sweep it up an hour later. After all this was completed, and he’d cleaned the disgusting insults from his mirrors (only after, of course, taking pictures for black mail/evidence should the need ever arise), he exhaustedly shuffled his way towards the joint locker room area between the dance studios and the main stage area. It’s late, nine by now, at least, and all he can hear is the echoing of his own footsteps bouncing back at him from the tile walls. He slips up onto the counter of the sink, switching on the faucet to hopefully rinse the oil from the crevices in between his toes and off the heels of his feet before he puts his shoes back on.

 

Feet.

 

Thrandui straightens up, because those footsteps he might have thought were his when he was walking have not stopped, only continuing to echo in the ill lit room. It takes him a moment, and then his eyes are rolling back into his head as recognition washes over his features.

 

"Am I to believe you truly waited all this time for me to clean up the mess and come stalking in here _just_ so you could torment me greater? Were the slurs on our mirrors not enough for you?" He says, his attention returning to his feet in the sink, for the intruder was certainly not worth a look in the eyes.

 

"Wait for you? A pig would sprout wings and whisk itself into the night before I was ever caught waiting around for the likes of _you_." The man says, followed by a deep chuckle. Static rushes down Thranduil's spine at the low, scoffing voice that belonged to a certain Mr. Thorin Oakensheild. He couldn't tell if the spark was good or bad, he simply knew it made his skin crawl in one way or another. "Actually, we've only just finished _our_ practice, I have simply come to gather my things. Speaking of _practices_ , aren't you usually in one around now?" He said with a positively shit eating grin. Thranduil sends him a glare so laden with ice he half expected the drama major to freeze on the spot.

 

"Usually." He says tersely, before returning to his feet. "Your productions are always so subpar, why waste so much time in practice?" He says absently, as he reaches for the paper towel dispenser, gripping a few of the rough sheets in his hands, before bringing them towards his feet, switching off the running water, his expression still generally uninterested.

 

"Shakespeare's always been a bitch." The man shrugs, leaning against the wall. "At least we don't have sickled feet." He smirks.

 

"What know you of sickled feet?" Thranduil snaps, glaring up at him as he dries his feet, the first look he has truly granted the shorter man since he had entered. "And gods, speak not of Shakespeare in that way. I can hear him rolling over in his grave." Thranduil rolled his eyes in a parody of the motion. “Now please, waste not my time any longer. I’ve no desire for your company.”

 

“Nor I for yours, Oropherion, yet, regardless of my letters to the board, our kind and yours must still share this room.” Thorin speaks, moving towards the lockers against the wall, fat, short little fingers (according to Thranduil, of course) popping open his locker. Thranduil rolls his eyes more pointedly this time (though Thorin is paying him no mind) as the drama major pulls a leather jacket off one of the hooks and slings it around his shoulders, the clank of metal chains assaulting Thranduil’s ears.

 

“Have you no sense of _fashion_?” The dancer grimaces, standing now, long legs crossing the room in two strides towards his own locker, from which he produces a pair of shoes to slip onto at least decently cleaned feet.

 

“Have you no sense of _talent_?” Thorin mocks, throwing his backpack over his shoulders and grabbing his motorcycle helmet, slamming the locker door shut with his shoulder and starting towards the exit.

 

“Remember which department holds the Arkenstone, Oakenshield.” Thranduil says, indifferently in tone, but malicious in intent as a million burning, angry emotions that the captain cannot quite explain go coursing down his spine, much more unpleasant than the first chill he had felt at Thorin’s voice. Thorin stops in his tracks, shoulder tense and knuckles white where he gripped the helmet in his hand. Thranduil hears the shorter man expel air, as if there might have been an insult on it, but nothing did come out. The drama student simply storms out the door, not caring how loud the slam is behind him.

 

Once he is confident that the other has cleared the room, Thranduil leans his head against the cool exterior of his locker, his bag weighing heavy on his shoulders and sleep threatening to take him right there, only the itch of burning anger keeping him awake.

 

\--

 

Thorin’s fuming by the time he reaches his motorcycle, mounting it angrily and slamming his helmet onto his head. How dare he bring up the Arkenstone! What an… an insolent _ass!_

 

He’s speeding, as he whips across campus, and he almost hits Ori’s car when he whips into a parking space right outside Durin’s Hall, where most of the Arts majors reside. Excluding Thranduil, thank god. Thorin really had no idea where the dancer stayed, or why he didn’t stay on campus, and if he were to be perfectly honest, he didn’t give two damns about the matter. As long as in the mornings and the evenings Thorin didn’t have to look at that face, that face that made him so, so… frustrated, god damn it! It wasn’t as if he hadn’t _tried_ not to be so aggravated with the blonde who seemed to haunt his thoughts, but him and his kind were just so self-righteous, unforgiving, unpitying, not that Thorin would ever _need_ a _dancer’s_ pity…

 

Caught up in his anger, Thorin didn’t become aware of any other presences until he was slamming right into Professor Balin, both his History professor, his Dorm Advisor… and his friend.

 

“Woah there, lad!” Balin chuckled as he staggers back, an arm gripping to Thorin’s to keep himself from falling over. The young man is a bit dazed, but manages to straighten himself up and shrug off the elder’s grip.

 

“You alright?” Thorin grunts, looking up at him, a bit of that fire still kindling in his eyes. “Sir.” He adds on, aware of how Balin will never ask for respect, but highly appreciates it.

 

“Are _you_?” The professor speaks, eyes squinting a bit as he looks hard at the other. “You look a bit frazzled. Oh,” He says, laying both his hands on Thorin’s shoulders. “Don’t tell me it was a certain _dancer_ again, was it, my boy?” He says, his look grim, but his eyes twinkling with a not so hidden expression of mischief. Thorin huffs a breath, rolling his eyes.

 

“If you can consider his uncoordinated flailing dancing, then I suppose, yes, it is a certain dancer.” He frowns, crossing his arms. “But it’s nothing both he and I can’t sleep off.”

 

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Balin grinned and Thorin’s face becomes a look of utter disgust.

 

“ _Not what I meant, Professor._ ” Thorin says testily, pushing the man’s hands from his shoulders. “ _Good. Night._ ” He says, pushing past. Balin sighs and chuckles to himself.

 

“Good night, lad!” He called over his shoulder, waving his hand absently and hobbling on his way, laughing at the slam of Thorin’s door he can hear echoing down the hall. “Oh, I do hope that Mr. Thranduil can teach the young lad a little _grace_ when all’s said and done.” He says to no one in particular, switching off the corridor light as he reaches the end.

 

\--

 

Thranduil’s dead. Okay, not actually, but he feels pretty damn near as he staggers up the steps towards his flat. Of course, of all days for the elevator to be shut down, it _had_ to be today. Usually, Thranduil wasn’t fond of the elevator anyways, preferring to hop up the steps two at a time, hearing the soft taps of his feet bounce against the concrete walls, but the one day he was beginning to think the metal contraption might not be so bad, it _had_ to be broken. Seven stories and a couple stubbed toes later, Thranduil’s slipping the key into his front door and unlocking it. He enters, dropping his bag to the ground and slipping his jacket from his shoulder, hanging it on the coat tree, for even if he _is_ tired, he will _not_ be messy. He enters the main living area with a sigh, his eyes falling on a certain fellow dancer, passed out on his couch, with a certain little blonde haired boy asleep right on top of him. Thranduil’s footsteps are light as he nears the pair, sinking down and gently running his thumb against the man’s cheek, knowing how he can be startled if abruptly woken.

 

“Galion… Galion…” He says softly, until his eyes flutter open, and by the way his head jerks Thranduil was sure he would have jolted up and flung the small boy half across the room had he not registered the weight on his chest.

 

“Ah, sorry Captain. I must have dozed.” He mumbles groggily, looking around. “What’s the… the time?”

 

“It’s nearly eleven.” Thranduil says, standing again and gently lifting the small boy off of him and leaning him against his chest. The boy stirs, and mumbles, but he does not fully wake, nuzzling his face into his father’s neck. “I apologize for my tardiness. You need your sleep, you are dismissed.” He says and Galion nods, rising to his feet, a hand running absently through his hair as he scrambles around to make sure he’s got all of his things, becoming more aware of the situation he’d just been in with his growing consciousness. Thranduil watches him for a moment, always such an interesting soul, before turning and starting back towards the bedrooms towards the rear of the space.

 

“Thranduil!” Galion calls from the room, his hair frazzled with sleep and his backpack haphazardly strung along his shoulder. The man turns on a heel, with his back straight, his arms curled around the small child in his grip. “Call me, if you need anything…?” Galion offers softly, a small smile on his lips. There are two passions he keeps in this world. His dance, and his captain. Even if his devotion seems… unrequited.

 

“Thank you, Galion.” Thranduil says stiffly. He sighs and nods, before walking towards the door, closing it gently behind him as he leaves. It always stirs Thranduil’s heart, seeing Galion. Thranduil has never had anyone past his father, whom has been long gone at this point, pour so much utter love and devotion into him, and yet, Thranduil cannot bring himself to return the sentiment. He isn’t even sure he can feel those emotions at all, anymore, towards anyone.

 

“A-ada?” Thranduil starts just slightly, having almost forgotten the thing in his arms was still very much there and still very much a living breathing thing that makes noise. He sighs heavily, calming himself from the start, before he hooks his chin over the boy’s head, wrapping his arms around the three year old a little bit tighter and walking towards the kid’s room.

 

“Hmm?” He hums, bouncing slightly as he walks, in a way he knew the kid liked. Legolas never was fond of being still. Always Ada’s little trouble maker.

 

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” He asks softly, and Thranduil stops in the door way of the boy’s room, leaning against the frame.

 

“And why would you need to do that, henig?” He asks, pulling his head back so he can look into the little boy’s sleepy blue eyes. Thranduil sees an echoing of his own exhaustion in the child’s eyes, and thinks the two of them might be in for bad news if they didn’t find rest soon.

 

“I don’t _need_ it, I just _want_ it.” He whines, pouting out that little lip and giving his father a look he just can’t say no to. He heaves a sigh. He’s too tired to fight it.

 

“Just tonight, Legolas.” The little boy grins and Thranduil has to smile when tiny, thankful lips land on his cheek. He hikes the kid up on his hip and starts towards the back room, humming an old song he knew as a child and that had always calmed Legolas, unceremoniously dropping a giggling little boy onto the large, empty bed before padding off to change his clothes.

 

\--

 

“You’re grunting again.” Thorin jolts at the sound of another voice. It is not often the man gets lost in his own thoughts so deeply he forgets others’ presences, but when he does, he tends to lose grip on the fact that just because he does not register them does not mean they cannot register him. His head rolls over from where it rests against his pillow to look across the room at his roommate, Balin’s younger brother, a student in his last year or two, by the name of Dwalin. Dwalin is looking right back at him, frown on his face, and arms crossed across his bare chest.

 

“And what’s it to you?” Thorin responds, returning the man’s frown, though his rebuttal is short lived due to a sigh and an unfocused glance to the ceiling that find themselves more at home on Thorin’s features. “Sorry.” He grunts, eyes tracing lazy patterns into the stark white ceiling.

 

“Somethin’s eatin’ yah. And I don’t think its tha’ mosquitos.” Dwalin says, his bed creaking in a telltale sign that the man is rolling onto his side.

 

“Considering it’s the middle of winter, no, I don’t think it’s the mosquitos.” Thorin says drolly, risking a glance at his clock and quickly regretting it. 12:01. A.M.

“Look, kid, we both know y’ain’t gonna be happy… _agreeable_ … until you vent your issues on somebody, and seein’ as I’m the only prick willin’ enough ta’ room with ya’ you’d best be talkin’.” Dwalin says firmly, and Thorin knows that this is an either speak know or speak in thirty minutes when you’ve been hit around with a frying pan a few times sort of conversation, so he might as well skip the concussion.

 

“Just those rotten _dancers_ is all.” Thorin grunts, shrugging at nothing in particular, his gaze again fixed on the ceiling.

 

“Dancers? Plural?” Dwalin asks, a bushy eyebrow arching at the man.

 

“And _what_ are you implying with that?” Thorin says, perhaps more defensively than he should have as his head now snaps to glare at Dwalin.

 

It’s no secret, the rivalry and the hatred that flows between the two captains, and it is often that rivalry that drives the elegant dancer and the well versed actor to rally their forces against each other. But it is also no secret that often Thranduil and Thorin find themselves staying late, to bicker and bitch in the locker rooms or to taunt one another with tales and insults. And seeing as at these brawls no one is about but the two captains, it is open to question just what goes down when the two have their privacy.

 

“I ain’t implyin’ nothin’.” Dwalin says, surrendering. “I’m simply sayin’ that there ain’t no hidin’ the animosity between you’n that dancer o’ yours.”

 

“Dancer of mine?” Thorin says, eyes narrowing. “Ha. Like _Thranduil Oropherion_ would ever spend any time caring for another human being, much less subjecting to one.” He scoffs, returning his eyes to the ceiling. Thorin can hear Dwalin grunt and open his mouth several times after this, and he knows the man is searching for words. Dwalin was gifted when lines were given to him, yet without them, often the man seemed at a bit of a loss, though his thoughts, when voiced, were often a thing of beauty. So Thorin just rolled over, staring at the blank wall before him and offering not so much as a ‘good night’.

 

 _His dancer_. Please. Thranduil wouldn’t be caught dead subjecting to a drama student, Thorin knew that, and the idea of him even wanting someone as useless as the blonde at his command was absurd. Or perhaps, it wasn’t, because the more Thorin thought about it, having power and dominance over that lithe form, the more he entertained images of that body of pure muscle fulfilling his every will, the more he seemed to like it.

 

And that in and of itself was truly terrifying.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, sorry this took so long Ducklings! It took me so long to get this done, my schooling has been CRAZY right now!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this! It's unbeta-d, so bless any mistakes, I did try to proof read it a few times. This chapter is generally short, for which I apologize, but the next chapters will pick up the tempo quite a bit! There's gonna be some mischief, just you wait and see!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment anything you'd like to see happen in the story, I love fresh ideas!
> 
> Also, thank you thank you for the sweet comments on the first chapter! c: 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> \- Ehiel

“Ge’ up, lad, ‘er you’ll be late.” It is far too early, Thorin thinks, for Dwalin’s meaty hands to be yanking him out of bed, but wouldn’t you know it, here they were. The younger of the pair groans and heaves himself up from the bed, glancing over at the clock.

10:48 A.M.

“I’m up, I’m up.” Thorin grumbles. “Get the hell off.” He shoves at Dwalin’s hand and the other drops his grasp with a warm chuckle. Thorin doesn’t return the sentiment as he stands up, flashing his middle finger to the other as he runs the fingers of his opposite hand through his coarse, curly, dark locks. Every morning (if nearly eleven could be considered morning) for Thorin goes the same way. Wake up, brush teeth, take a shower (if he needs it), hair in a pony tail, script in his satchel, and off to classes he went. Efficient, no muss, no fuss. On occasion he’d add a beard trim in there… but more often than not he just let himself look a little wild. He liked that whole rebel without a cause vibe he eternally seemed to emanate. Kept punks from bugging him, anyways. 

So in this manner, the young theatre major is out the door and off to one of his core classes. Nothing crazy difficult. A bit relaxing, really. It’d been nearly a week since he’d had any trouble with any pesky dancers or anyone for that matter. Things were looking up, he thinks as he walks down the length of the campus, admiring the beautiful architecture of the assorted buildings about him.

Today was going to be a good day.

\--

Today was an awful day. A god awful day. The kind that they warn you of in Sex Ed to try and scare you away from banging that little cutie you’ve had your eye on.

Thranduil is nothing but frazzled, the sounds of his alarm clock he’d never gotten around to hitting snooze on and Legolas’ screaming putting him on edge. He shoves his feet in his shoes and grabs his bag, scooping up the screaming child from where he’s seated at the small kitchen table.

Which only makes him scream louder.

“Hush up.” Thranduil snaps and Legolas either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care because he doesn’t shut his mouth. Getting the little one to day care was a disaster and Thranduil had to return to the flat twice on the way to campus, once because he’d realized he was wearing two different shoes, and again because he’d realized he’d forgotten his bag on the first trip by. He does, by some great miracle, manage to hit campus around five minutes before class starts, throwing his bag over his shoulder and sprinting from the parking garage towards his building… on the other side of the campus. Luckily, his long legs and slight frame make him a fast runner, and he was positive he could make it just in time.

That was, until he turned a corner and went barreling into a poor unsuspecting student.

Well, poor and unsuspecting until Thranduil realized it was, in fact, Thorin. Who was a road block and a nuisance. Thranduil hits the ground at the same time as Thorin, both emitting small cries of varying degrees of pain. 

“Is it necessary that you walk in the center of the sidewalk?” Thranduil hisses, pulling his left wrist into his chest, quite confident he’d at least twisted it.

“Is it necessary that you RUN down the bloody way!” Thorin snaps, in that loud, angry tone of his (that Thranduil would argue as his regular tone). He’s got a little blood dripping from a gash on his forehead and Thranduil knows he really shouldn’t feel so smug about it, but Thorin bloody well deserved it. Thranduil wasn’t sure why yet, but he just did. The dancer stands to his feet, using his good hand to toss pale blonde hair over his shoulder, before stooping to pick up his bag and toss it over his shoulder. “See you in class.” He says, and when he takes off in a sprint, foot catching on the arm Thorin leans back against and unintentionally (really, he swears) kicking it out from under the theatre major, he tries to feel bad, really he does.

He doesn’t.

\--

There is a vast litany of choice words that come into Thorin’s mind and circulate through his brain space as he comes into class nearly fifteen minutes late with a sore hip, head, and pride. And there Thranduil is, sat on the right edge of the room, towards the back;

Smirking like the bastard he was.

Thorin flips him the bird before the teacher can turn to address his tardiness, sliding into the back of the lecture hall and into a chair of questionable comfort, not even bothering with notes. No, no he was far too angry to focus on anything presently.

Thranduil is downright lively today, answering questions, participating, and Thorin knows it’s a show. Intentionally passive gloating. And it just makes him that much angrier.

The dancer never would tell that his wrist throbbed in time with his heart, each beat shooting pains up the bones of his arm. He wouldn’t be giving the coarse, gruff man two rows behind him that kind of satisfaction any time soon.

\--  
It’s a haven, the stage. Stress, troubles, pain all pale to Thorin’s senses when he is in the theatre, on the stage, speaking, feeling the emotions he denies himself. Breathing.

Usually.

Because today, after the debacle with Thranduil, an unscheduled quiz (which he was positive he’d bombed) in the subsequent class and a particularly boring bought of lectures, the metaphorical cherry on top comes in the form of him arriving to a theatre full of loud, arguing, angry theatre kids.

He drops his bag into one of the red, fold down velvet theatre seats towards the back, slowly walking towards the stage, taking in the sight of the bickering bunch.

And then, he’s had enough.

He yells, no words in particular, just a mighty ‘HEUGH’ loud enough to silence the rowdy bunch into submission. They scramble to face the troupe’s leader, all straight backed and at attention.

Except, of course, Bilbo and Dwalin, who give him matching bitch faces. He never can manage to get those two as whipped as the others (arguably because they have him himself whipped).

“What’s the meaning of all this?” Thorin calls, walking up towards the stage as he pulls coarse hair back behind his head in a tight pony tail. 

“We don’t… know. All of our costumes are missing, and we’re… not sure where they’ve gone.” Nori says slowly, not liking the way Thorin’s eyes grow to about the size of dinner plates.

“What do you mean they’ve gone? Costumes don’t have legs, Nori, they don’t just get up and walk!” He rages and he would have continued, if Bilbo’s loud sigh didn’t cut him off.

“Here, here!” Bilbo huffs, bustling off the stage and towards Thorin. “Our assailant left his calling card.” Thorin’s brows furrow as the shorter man pushes a slip of paper into his hand. He glances down to read the small, elegant hand writing he knows all too well.

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it whine as much as a theatre arts major? – T

“Bastard.” Thorin huffs under his breath. He crumples the note and shoves it in his pocket. “Come on, you louts. We’ll worry about it later, we’re not going to let those damn dancers take our practice time from us. Double time, let’s go!”

He receives no protest.

\--

Thranduil’s ankles ache and his body protests his movements as he shuffles (rather ungracefully) from the dance room towards the locker room. His wrist is still giving him fits and he knows he likely ought to have it checked out before it becomes too much of a problem. He is satisfied though, his body playing a faint and tired symphony that resonates in his bones and calms his brain. He’s ready to go home, though. It’s only seven, which is early for him, but Thranduil was pleased with the diligence of his dancers and the skill they’d exhibited throughout the day and had no trouble releasing everyone early.

He was not pleased to find, as he entered the locker room, one very pissed off theatre arts major.

“Where is our stuff, Thranduil?” Thorin says coldly, foot tapping and sending noises bouncing off the white walls. Thranduil just rolls his eyes.

“I told you. Use that brain I’m sure you have.” He sighs passively, stalking towards his locker and pulling out his old, well-worn Converse and a brush before he heads over to the counter, slipping up onto it before he begins to change his shoes. “Not because I think you intelligent, mind you.” He tacks on in his usual droll, unamused tone. “I simply know it’s a necessary component of everyone’s basic anatomy.” 

“Ha. Ha. I’m sure you think you’re cute.” Thorin scoffs.

“I do.” Thranduil says, glancing over at him as he double knots the laces of his left shoe before moving on to the next. “And I’m not telling you. Where would the fun be in that?” He grins broadly.

“It will be tons of fun when I turn you into the dean and get you expelled.” Thorin huffs, but the threat is hollow, as he is sure Thranduil has plenty of dirt on him as well. Thranduil’s lack of response seems to denote that he knows this fact as well. With shoes securely on his feet, Thranduil lets white-blonde hair out of the knot atop his head so that it can hang freely over his shoulders, taking the brush to it with gentle precision. 

It’s not until Thranduil utters a, “Can I help you?” that Thorin realizes he’s staring. Thorin just purses his lips and heads to his locker to fetch his things. He knows Thranduil won’t be disclosing anything else to him any time soon and that frustrates him.

Once he’s got on his jacket and gloves, Thorin is out of there, leaving Thranduil brushing those locks like some androgynous Rapunzel.

The walk from the building to his motorcycle parked on the curb is strange. There’s a heat in his gut and the familiar spark on his spine and this misplaced desire to want to run his fingers through that golden hair and rip all of those conditioned strands out all at once. He’s going crazy. That has to be it, he’s going crazy.

It’s not until as he’s driving towards his dorm that he realizes what Thranduil meant, for from the branches of the many trees of the prestigious campus…

… hung every bit of costuming the theatre arts department owned.

\--

“I understand.” Thranduil says as the fourth babysitter in the past two months takes her final pay check and leaves for good. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if Legolas was just a holy terror or if the hours were really that unruly.

Probably a mixture of both, all things considered.

The daycare released kids at 4:15, and Thranduil per usual didn’t get home until eight every night save Sundays, where he didn’t go in at all, though this time slot was often subject to fluctuation as some nights it could be eleven before Thranduil was returning home. Thranduil frowns as he gently pushes closed the door of his flat behind the girl, turning back to see Legolas standing in the short hall, holding that silly little stuffed elk to his chest with a frown all too like Thranduil’s own.

“She didn’t like me, did she.” The little boy asks dejectedly and Thranduil is quick to shake his head, walking over to the boy and scooping him up in his arms, holding him on his hip.

“She loved you.” Thranduil reassures him as the boy drops his tired head on his father’s shoulder. “Just like I do.”

“Then why did she leave?” He asks in a tired sort of way that says he isn’t too terribly interested in contesting any answer Thranduil were to give him.

“Because Ada is not rich, nor very punctual.” Thranduil drawls and Legolas picks up his head to give Thranduil a confused little nose wrinkle. It makes his father smile. “Grown up stuff.” He says in a softer, more child-like tone.

“Oh.” Legolas says back in the same way. And then he yawns, his head again slumping against his father. “I don’ like grown up stuff.” He mumbles, before he’s dropping off.

“Me neither.” Thranduil whispers, carrying the boy to bed and tucking him in. He gives his son one last look as he stands in the door way. He hates this. He’s never around and when he is… Legolas is tired, worn from the day and he cannot… enjoy the presence of his own son. “Me neither.” He repeats as he switches off the light and heads to his own far too big, far too empty bed to sleep as best he can.

And it’s in the half asleep, half awake state that Thranduil resolves to be a better father. Because this wasn’t living. This was being…

Whipped.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin sees something he shouldn't, and Galion gets an intense bought of false hope.  
> Also, Fili and Kili meet little Legolas for the first time... and it's a bit of a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, you guys have been so overwhelmingly sweet! Thank you so, so much for all your sweet comments, I love you all to death and I am so grateful for your kind words and continued faith in me. I know I am not the most prompt in updating, and your faithfulness is incredibly sweet and I appreciate all of you so much.
> 
> Again, this is un-betad, so feel free to let me know about any typos or awkward sentences and I will surely fix them.
> 
> I know these beginning chapters are a lot of set up for later events, so bless you for staying with me and I'll see you all soon!

“Nuh uh!”

 

“Uh huh!”

 

“ _Boys._ ” The elder of the pair snaps to attention at the sound of his uncle’s voice… but the other, at the ripe age of six has absolutely no regard for authority and certainly no regard for his Uncle. He juts out a hip, arms crossed defiantly over his chest and sticks out his tongue. Thorin’s face grows very stern and he opens his mouth to speak… but the young boy’s mother is much quicker to act.

 

“ _Kili!_ ” The name is barked from a woman a good deal shorter than Thorin, with the dark hair and sharp eyes of her elder brother (elder by seven minutes, he’d never let her forget), but none of his sharp lines. She was rounder, softer, but that was not to say she was not a force to be reckoned with.

 

She could say jump and even Thorin Oakenshield would ask how high.

 

The six year old straightens up almost immediately, tongue retracting at lightning speed, but Dis was faster, grabbing the small boy by the tongue and hauling him forward.

 

“Apologize to your uncle!” She commands, and Kili, tongue still pinched between Dis’ fingers, babbles a very quick very slurred apology, and it’s everything Thorin can do to keep his straight, stern face through it. “Now get on boy, you and your brother, and don’t cause a ruckus, you hear me?” She says, releasing the young boy’s tongue.

 

“Yes ma’am!” Two voices call.

 

Thorin hadn’t seen those two run that fast in a long, long time.

 

They wait until the pair have cleared the theatre before both he and Dis begin to laugh, Thorin even with a few undignified snorts here and there.

 

“Kili, Kili… he’s going to be a force to be reckoned with when he gets too big for you to go around grabbing his tongue.” Thorin chuckles, once he’s regained his breath.

 

“I’d _like_ to see him get too big.” Dis says indignantly, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. “I still grab _your_ tongue.”

 

“When you can reach it.” Thorin says, puffing out his chest and straightening up to full height. Dis just purses her lips.

 

“Asshole.”

 

“Bitch.”

 

They’re a strange pair, those two, but believe it or not, that’s as close as they got to ‘I love you.’

 

\--

 

“Why did you do that!” Fili exclaims once he and Kili are far away from the theatre and clear of their mother’s grabby fingers. He stops, out of breath, and spins around to grab Kili by the shoulders. “She won’t buy us McDonald’s on the way home if you sass her! And if she doesn’t buy us McDonald’s, I’m going to take all your legos and put them on top of the refrigerator!” Now, to you this may not seem like such a big deal, but at nine Fili was already pushing five feet and at six Kili was still holding out under four feet.

 

So this was just detrimental.

 

“ _You wouldn’t._ ” Kili breathes, looking up at his brother with big eyes.

 

“I would. For a whole day.” Kili’s little gasp echoes off all the walls, and his bottom lip quivers, and Fili knows he’s likely gone too far.

 

“I-I’m sorry! I d-didn’t mean it, don’t t-take my legos!” He squeals, little tears welling in his eyes. He grabs the hem of Fili’s shirt in his little hands and tugs at it lightly. “I didn’t mean it, I pr-promise!”

 

“Just don’t do it again.” Fili concedes, because all his brother had to do was pull that little face and Fili’d probably steal a pony for him. He pulls Kili in to his chest and gives him a brief, tight hug. “Uncle Thorin does look pretty funny when he’s angry.” He says conspiratorially and just like that Kili’s from the verge of tears to little hiccupy laughs.

 

“Ada says McDonald’s gross.” The brothers start a little at a third voice in the hall and Fili spins around to see a very short, very thin, very pale little boy (girl? What was with that hair?) standing at the far end of the hall with a stuffed elk likely as big as he was under his arm and a small pout on his lips. Fili sighs, relieved to know it was just another kid, though he wasn’t sure who’s it was (definitely didn’t look like it could even be kind of related to any of his ‘aunts and uncles’ in the theatre department). “Makes you fat.” He says, nodding solemnly and Fili’s about to say something before Kili is marching right over to this blonde headed boy, with hands on his hips and a pout on his face.

 

“It does not.” He huffs and the boy’s face turns to a frown.

 

“Does too.” He insists, looking up at the older, taller boy. “See.” He says, poking Kili’s stomach. “Fat.” Kili gives the biggest, most melodramatic, most indignant drop of the jaw and Fili then has to intervene, fighting back laughter as he pulls Kili out of the other little boy’s face.

 

“Don’t mind him.” Fili says comfortingly to Kili, unaware that the blonde boy has dropped his elk and is pulling at the corners of his mouth to make the most atrocious faces Kili’s way.

 

Which prompts Kili to take that little stuffy and dart off.

 

And causes Legolas to scream. At three, Legolas doesn’t know much about sharing (because at slowly approaching thirty his father didn’t necessarily know about it either), and when it came to things that were definitively his, he most certainly did not share. Period.

 

“Shh, shh!” Fili says quickly, instantly fearing the wrath of his mother were she to hear the screams and come out to investigate, but this kid just plops down on the ground and continues to scream his head off. “Kili!” Fili calls, and all grumpy and huffy Kili comes trudging back, dropping the elk defiantly back in the boy’s lap.

 

It shuts him up immediately.

 

“Now that we’ve all calmed ourselves down.” Fili says with a pointed look Kili’s way, before sinking down onto the ground and looking over at the little blonde headed boy. “What’s your name, buddy?” He asks, and Kili indignantly flops down onto the floor, sprawling out on his stomach.

 

“Legolas.” He states, tilting his head just slightly.

 

“Legless?” Fili asks, pursing his lips. “I doubt it. Your legs are right here!” He grins, taking hold of Legolas’ feet and shaking them slightly, making the little boy giggle.

 

“Leg-o-las.” He enunciates and Kili scoffs, rolling his eyes.

 

“What kinda’ name’s _Legolas_?” He huffs, looking away.

 

“Kili, that’s enough.” Fili says warningly.

 

“What kinda name’s Kili?” Legolas puffs and Fili gives up all hope because these two were ridiculous.

 

“How about,” The eldest sighs. “we play a game, mm? Let’s play a game.”

 

\--

 

“You drive me nuts, don’t you know that?” Galion sighs, leaning back against the mirrored wall, watching his captain run the same section of the new choreography he was working on over and over and over again. All the others have left long ago, yet Thranduil refuses to leave, regardless of the progressing hours of the night.

 

“What do you mean?” Thranduil questions, brows furrowing as the music stops again and he allows himself a moment to stand, folding his hands behind his head so he can catch his breath.

 

What does he mean? Galion thinks about it a moment. Of course Thranduil drove him nuts. For the years he had known the dancer, he had driven him absolutely nuts. The way Thranduil lead his troupe with such determination, the way he danced with all his heart, the love he showed his son, not to mention Thranduil certainly wasn’t harsh on the eyes.

 

Of _course_ Thranduil drove him nuts.

 

“You stay up here all these hours, by yourself, slaving over these dances.” Galion settles on, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. “And for what?”

 

For what. For his future, for theirs. It was a common misconception that Thranduil lacked a heart. Perhaps it was the monotone way in which he spoke, or his seeming lack of pity. But though broken, and hardened, Thranduil’s heart was passionate, and he loved what he considered his. He considered these dancers his. His disciples, his family. And he would take care of them.

 

“I’m by myself, am I?” Thranduil drawls, stretching his arms over his head and avoiding the real question at hand. “You’ve been here all night. Do you think you know the dance?”

 

“Well enough.” Galion concedes, not fond of the way Thranduil dodges his inquiry.

 

“Come, dance, let me watch.”

 

\--

 

“Fili, Kili!” Thorin’s voice echoes through the hall. It’s late, but he promised Dis he’d take the boys out for a little while so that she could get a little peace and quiet. Just a few hours. Thorin is rather startled, as it were, to find Fili with Kili under one arm, and a small boy he’d never seen before under the other, sound asleep in the middle of the hall way. Thorin frowns and for a moment (just a moment, he swears) debates just leaving the little rascals there.  
  
But a promise is a promise, no matter how tired, as it were.  
  
“Fili… Fili.” He says, crouching beside the tangle of bodies and gently resting a hand on Fili’s shoulder, shaking lightly until his brassy haired nephew wakes.

 

“Huh, what, I’m up, I swear.” He mumbles, shaking the sleep from himself with a few jolts of the head, which consequently wake the two younger boys.

 

Legolas seems to be the most disoriented, seeing as he was surrounded by three strange people he wasn’t sure he knew, at least not in his sleep addled state.

 

“Who’s this?” Thorin asks with a frown and it takes Fili a moment to register before he’s ruffling Legolas’ hair, much to the boy’s chagrin.

 

“’s Legolas.” Fili yawns and Legolas looks up at Thorin with wide, blue eyes.

 

Thorin can’t help but think this kid looks far too familiar, but he doesn’t say much.

 

“You’re hairy, mister.” Legolas frowns in confusion, reaching a little hand up to run over Thorin’s beard.

 

“Am I?” Thorin says with a light chuckle. “I didn’t notice. Where’d you come from?”

 

“Ada says I came from the cabbage patch.” Legolas says proudly, and Kili (who’s just now getting his grips back on the world) rolls his eyes.

 

“Nuh uh, you came fr—“ Kili squeaks indignantly as Fili’s hand slaps over his mouth, the eldest smiling sheepishly at the look Thorin gives him.

 

“Ada?” Thorin asks curiously.

 

“Ada.” Legolas repeats. He never could properly say Dada or Father or anything like that… his first word had been Ada and Thranduil had just been Ada ever since. Thorin watches him a moment, confused, before it dawns on him.

 

“Oh… your dad, hm?” He asks, to make sure he was on the right track.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” Legolas says, nodding his head vigorously.

 

“Well, he must not be a very good dad leaving you out here on your own.” Thorin chuckles. This must be one of the dancer’s kids, he figured. Or perhaps the janitor’s. He’d certainly never seen the kid before and he was sure it wasn’t any of his department’s family.

 

“He busy. He very important.” Legolas says indignantly, offended that this stranger would speak so poorly of his Ada.

 

“Very important, huh?” Thorin chuckles.

 

Very important dancer, huh?

 

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

 

Thorin glances back to the kid and it’s so pain-stakingly obvious he can’t believe he didn’t see it. The pale hair and skin, the bright eyes, the slight, long frame.

 

_This was Thranduil’s son._

“Come on then.” Thorin says suddenly, standing up and motioning the three to do the same. “Let’s get you back to your _Ada_ then.”

 

\--

 

“Your arms are weak, you should know better than this.” Thranduil chides, stepping up towards Galion where he stood frozen in the position Thranduil had told him to take. Galion is out of breath, panting from the dance he’d executed. “Don’t move.” Thranduil instructs him, moving thin fingers over the muscles of Galion’s shoulders and out over his arms. He says nothing, fingers tracing the lines of muscle as Galion does his best to stand still, but it’s hard. Thranduil is close enough that his breath ghosts over Galion’s skin and he certainly should not be enjoying the feel of Thranduil’s hands on his flesh as much as he does. “You’re tense.” Thranduil’s comment snaps Galion back to the real world and he tilts his head slightly, opening his mouth to ask what Thranduil was getting at, but Thranduil makes a noise in his throat that invokes silence, his hand coming to Galion’s chin to tilt the dancer’s head back to its original position. Galion lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as Thranduil moves to stand behind him. “Relax your muscles…” He drawls, running his hands from shoulders out to Galion’s finger tips, until he mimics Galion’s own stance behind him. “But retain your strength.”  
  
Galion looks in the mirror, over the lines of his body, how they shadow the lines of the slightly taller Captain’s behind him. It always amazes him, how Thranduil can maintain the grace he has, dancing or otherwise.

  
Especially after what had happened.  
  
He lets his eyes linger over Thranduil’s extended arms, and were the captain to notice and inquire, Galion would ride it off as mere observations done in hope of improving his own stance. After a moment, he begins to attempt what his Captain asked of him. Releasing the tension in his arms, but keeping them strong and smooth.  
  
“Pull from here.” Thranduil says, lowering his hands, resting one on Galion’s hip and the other over the dancer’s stomach. “All your strength starts in your core… let it up to your shoulders… and let that strength hold your arms.” He says, running his hands up Galion’s back and again to his shoulders. “Then, you are able to move your arms freely.” He says, letting his own arms extend and showing the way his shoulders could stay taut and supportive but his arms could move with freedom, fluidity, and grace. Galion waits a moment, before (with all of this advice in mind) he begins to move in tandem with his Captain.  
  
“Beautiful.” Thranduil mutters after a long moment, watching them move in sync in the mirrored wall.

 

\--

 

Thorin had dismissed Fili and Kili to go and await him outside, taking Legolas by the hand and beginning to walk him over towards the dancer’s side of the facility. The little boy is groggy, at best, but he bounces along beside Thorin on the balls of his feet, the antler of a plush elk unceremoniously in his mouth.

 

He has spirit, Thorin thinks.

 

They remain relatively silent as they walk through the locker room and out the other side towards the dance hall. It was a long corridor, with two large dance room on either side that had viewing windows set into each. It is here that Thorin stops.

 

Through the window he sees them; Thranduil with his chest against Galion’s back, their arms parallel, those lips close enough to brush the pulse point just behind his second-in-command’s ear.

 

And it makes Thorin _sick_.

 

“You okay, mister?” Legolas asks absently, looking up at where Thorin stands, stiff and uncomfortable.

 

“Fine.” Thorin grunts.

 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Legolas asks, too short to see through the window.

 

“Uh, your…” He takes a deep breath, trying to gather his wits. “Where’s your mother?” Thorin blurts, because it’s only logical. There was a father, a child, there had to be a mother. A mother somewhere that would not be pleased to see what Thorin was seeing right now.

 

“Sleepin’.” Legolas says, shifting so he can properly hold his stuffy.

 

“Yeah?” Thorin asks absently, glancing down. “She’s at home?”

 

Legolas shrugs his shoulders. “Ada says so.”

 

“Go on.” Thorin finally chokes out, giving Legolas a little nudge. He glances up to Thorin one last time, a bit confused at the sudden change in attitude, but he settles for hugging the actor’s calf very quickly before running off into the dance room.

 

Thorin watches as Thranduil turns away from Galion, to gather a little boy, who drops his treasured elk on the floor and runs to his father, up into his arms. He doesn’t miss the way Galion seems to release a heavy breath, obviously disappointed, though Thranduil doesn’t seem to be phased.

 

Thorin turns then, angry and confused for no good reason. This mess was none of his business, he thinks as he rounds the corner into the locker room, leaning back against the cool surface of the lockers.

 

Thranduil was married, he… he had a _child_ , for god’s sake! And Thorin didn’t even want to know what he was doing in there with Galion. Thorin was sick to his stomach. He’d always hated Thranduil, never known why, but now… now he is nothing but _disgusted_.

 

He takes a moment to gather himself, rising up and moving out toward the curb where his nephews waited on him.

 

How despicable! How disgusting!

 

Thorin can’t help it that night when he returns to his dorm without so much as a ‘Hello’ Dwalin’s way, replaying the way Thranduil’s hands traced over Galion’s toned arms and torso, and it is not until the early hours of the morning he identifies the feeling in his gut.

 

 

 _How disgusting._           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, hope you all liked it! Let me know if there's anything/any direction you'd like this story to take! I love input! c:
> 
> Also, I got a tumblr for my writing! I'm accepting requests, or if you just want to talk, come and hit me up!!
> 
> http://ehiel-the-elvenking.tumblr.com
> 
> Love you all, and until next time,  
> Ehiel


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